


Hephaestus

by thinskinnedcalciumsipper



Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 04:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15678510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinskinnedcalciumsipper/pseuds/thinskinnedcalciumsipper
Summary: Sloppy, bad grammar, many spelling mistakes, I didn't know what was going on half the time because of how the sentences carry too many metaphors and juxtaposition to the point of whiplash... 2/10- Athiepretentious and comes off as trying too hard while being incoherently bad- MelIt was so tragically bad that I swore for a moment, I thought this was a parody piece that you wrote to fuck with us.The awful grammar, the terrible spelling, the grotesque spacing, the idiotic way you tried to make it oh so deep...this story would truly would be a masterpiece if one gets drunk beforehand and remove half of one's own brain cells.Don't worry, however, I did found a purpose for your writing; once I go back to my class, I'm going to pull this up to my fellow classmates as an example on how NOT to write.- SARS





	1. animals

**Author's Note:**

> im bored so ill post this. its not betad heehhehehehehehehheheeh *drinks a sip a kombucha w chia seeds*
> 
> 8/20 i rewrote this whole bitch haaaaaaaa. can i say cursewords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> did i all ready say i redid this chapter? every day i wake up and i praise god for giving music doja cat, who saved the civilized worldby smashing our narrow minds open with bitch im a cow

[I always knew](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olVimyWw-vc)  
[I would spend a lot of time alone,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olVimyWw-vc)  
[no-one would understand me.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olVimyWw-vc)  
[Maybe I should go and live amongst the animals.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olVimyWw-vc)  


As you pass a strike in the brush, pausing to turn your ear to the air, from a wing of blushing myrtle, a brunette pheasant hen springs clattering into ripples of rainbow heaven, and aglow, then, you run, a fly in your hair, for you've heard it, small in its remoteness from you but distinct as a churchbell, a chortled, sweet, childish sound, which hooks in a tendering, primitive component of you, and tugs you forward. Resonant comes the cry up from the sleet baked cup of the land; the hoary plain, its strands and petals tumbled with you in a sour wind, shot about blooms of blue stone rippling in the noon, shadowed them by gasps of enduring bluebell you fly down hill, over the border of the wild into the wheat, the blond plenitude which crashes apart, bursting fragrantly underfoot, the amber beads lost in saturated blue, towards the summons which repeats itself, again, again, you fly.

You approach then, where the wheat becomes pale and spare of exploitation, the blot of squalid blue almost obscured by the intensity of blistering Augustlight filling your eyes, a shanty or little barn, a gruesome scene of decay, the chipped, crooked, sunbleached boards, crooked expelled nails like fairy tale thorns, blushed with princess-blood, like the grimace of a corpse, the red crust in the waves of the tin roof, like a barn, but too small for cattle; a powerful odor, a wasps nest in the black rafter, in the wheat, a bone, to where you hear it cry, the ripened sphere of bleating, you pace the perimeter of the barn, you hear it.

You'd thought, on the hill, you'd heard a child.

You stand, in the door, which is only a doorway, at the border of throbbing ruby dark, a pregnant dark, and the orbit of dust in the pillar of brilliant light you are cast in spills in over a riot of weird stuff, some moonpale and dreamy textures and shapes, you almost know, your hairs stand on end, into the quiet, you peer.

Then descends a great arm on you.

The flight of the fairies and some spectral featherdown on the thick and stinking air you perceive ahead of the mallet, a black lead bludgeon gripped in a massive, purpled hominid fist; it falls past you, opening only a wound in the earth where you'd stood, a mist of peat and pale animal detritus scintillating in the shard of light and veiling the advance which screams, its screaming, from the dark, flies at you, again, but you are away, all ready, you've rolled to your feet and crushed into a corner of the killing room, and you fire your rifle into his shoulder.

The shattering resonance of the shot in the enclosed space for an instant displaces, like his hammer would have, all sensory input. You are in a freckle of light on water, a note of bell. Your life is divided. You grasp. The dark, inevitable, rapacious and lavening, suitored; you threw your resistance, and now, you see by the wedge of blind light which darts in the door you seize towards, ringing, ringing, he cries, on the floor, in a cloud of dust and fluff, a man, infected with an opening posy blood, cupping in his titanic hands the burgeoning shoulder (a behemoth man, a bear, the size of his hands! his bulbous hirsute arms, the monolith of his felled frame, the baritone gullet of his weeping) he folds, and rocks himself.

You pause.

Unsure, you look.

Holding him at gunpoint, you dare approach a step.

You step again.

He snuffles.

You beckon with the blacksnake tongue of your rifle, tapping his temple, which he turns from you

his face

something wrong with his face

He wears a face, the lead finger under his anvil chin picking it up, showing you his visage that is a slipshod assemblage of tanned exterior, a puerile opus, something like a sack, embroidered eyelashes and profound brows, the effect not unlike the uncanny painted tears of a clown, tied with twine under two large, ineptly rendered ears; the desiccated slashes to suggest and admit a mouth, two eyes, wet with tears. 

His large incisors are visible in the bloomed shade, and his piteous, grievous shuddering. His sound, like him, is robust, broad, rich, filling the dark, softly sobbing, sharply earnest like a young creatures cry. The stitch in your heart is tugged.

Gesturing with the palm of your hand, you instruct him to be calm. From your canvas knapsack of six stiff rabbits, you recover your package of remedies folded into an sachet of tartan.

In the blood and earth, in the spotlight, by the beast of man, you kneel.

Perhaps in inarticulate terror, perhaps outraged at your temerity, he sits forward to swipe at you -- the iris of his arc is horrifying and his fist meets in dimension your skull and you might be killed instantly; you dart away, unharmed, and return, and for his cheek, you slap him.

That gives him pause. Even his weeping wanes. From the blooded mud up, he stares at you from the windows of his peculiar composition in mute astonishment as you enter again his armslength, determining in the sludgy young hummock on his shoulder (his enormous shoulder, which takes the weight of your entire body to turn) the shot has only grazed the big baby. You try to tell him so.

He has fainted.

His burdensome hot cheek tangible beneath the exterior skins you feel on your thigh. He wears a crown of black curls you fill your fingers with, pushing him, but he won't be pushed. He smells powerfully of candlemaking time.

He is so large. He is so large. You cannot stir him.

With a skinning-knife you draw from your shoe you open the seams of his shirtsleeve to access his red wet flesh. With whiskey, you disinfect his wound, which looks like a couple scarlet freckles, applying your weight on your sachet to the the burping vasculars of his pillarly shoulder (this meat, you observe, is paler by a mark than the browned fat flesh of his great arms.) His head, the weight of a weary child, you do not shift.

For a while, you fill yourself with the look of him. His lips are full. He is so large.

The dappled olived arms, which you cannot depart from, the awesome arms, the mere thickness of them! and the might! Poxed with many minuscule glossed scars and sunspots, voluptuous as dancing ladies, together prostate over the indomitable tunnel of his protuberant belly. When you pat it, the broad cylinder of fat carries away your touch in ripples, a bovine musculature that resonates beneath the palm of your hand, a daisy on the hill of him. He wears ugly and smelling clothing, a dirty cotton shirt, trousers, his hemmed face. He looks like a man in comparison to you, a waxen maiden, a hummingbird.

He stirs. His breath stinks. You touch the plaintive opened palm of his hand; it is workrough and dark with uncleanliness, and very like in all ways an oxen hoof. You are able to draw your leg from him. Poor man.

You leave him, in apology, your capped copper tube of whiskey and one of the rabbits you shot today -- the pretty black one -- in the bloodstamped sachet which has held your gynecological miscellania.

You return home.

The walk is long. The sweet olive wood, the shade of the meadow hill when you return to your cottage and fathers grave is cool, fragrant and good.

Your rabbits you hang on hooks in the chill cellar shade. Your rifle you hang over the door. Your dress, which blushes darkly in the hem with soil and blood and slugs weighting its pockets you leave at the threshold where it falls.

You boil a rabbit. You read the bible.

Soon you must light a candle. You feel so weary.

You eat the dark sticky meat with your fingers, with salt and peaches from the tree, sitting on the floor. You eat a lot.

Lazily you fade with the day, and the moon meets you asleep, in the loft your cot is made, and you dream, soon, in the whisper of wind in sweet-olive, chirping, dimwater, in the aquamarine mists and sound that enclose you, you strike with your foot a chord of amazing music and tumble into the moon world where he is fucking you, the great man of the dark which smelled so powerfully carnivorous, whose arms were like the throats of gulping pythons, grasping you, his hands on you, his embrace like the obliterating thumb of the Lord, his grip, unendurable, the man without a face, whose hair cherubically curled, whose penis eviscerates you, forcing your contents to excruciating extremities, bursting at the seams, you are, for he is too large, he is too large, he is too large, and your tears he drinks. In the froth of brine you are consumed.

The scarlet needle of sun in your eye disturbs you, and you rise.

You rinse your mouth with funds from your aluminum washbasin.

You descend into room. Sitting on the floor, you eat a peach and a rock of brown sugar.

You want a drink of milk. You might take rabbits to the town to sell today. You got a lot yesterday. You want a bottle of milk and a plum pie.

You open the door to the day.

On the stone you step to reach your door is a sachet, sewn of, you see, black rabbit fur.


	2. aurora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> h-hewwo???
> 
> its my birthday!! :o) write me leatherface pornography >:o) deadass
> 
> 9/4 rewrite largely done but im getting to the fucky bit and my words become spaghetti?

[A mountain shade suggests your shape.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjpciqKoNdY)

[I tumble down on my knees,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjpciqKoNdY)

[fill the mouth with snow;](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjpciqKoNdY)

[the way it melts, I wish to melt into you.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjpciqKoNdY)

When the hungering heat infests the ootheca dark of your home, you leave it, in the tedious afternoon you have filled with weeping and sleeping, to follow the thin rivertrack out of the valley shade into the light, into the obliterating radiance of heat of heath, the tepid trickle, you pursue, over barren dell to where the phantom of water pools into the greenfrond spring, a glass in the grasses and waste in the shade of the rivercarved gully you employ as your toilette. 

Blood and earth and womanoil have cooked an unsavory cake. It is so hot, you wear your gun, but nothing else. It is August sixteenth.

The hot earth and stone shards cannot harm your black calloused feet. Your gun you hang on an ebony arm which spills from the hill over the remote jade dish. You descend.

Summer is kind, and fills the tumbling boughs of musky ebony with glossy blooms of deep green velveted beans and clustered snowflake, the odor of green, and the orbs of fluffy brush tumbling out of the shaded grace of the ebony tree to the hem of the clifface fills bursts of yucca, goosefoot, Christmassy agarito-berry, bluebell and birdsong, and summer simmers the winters tumult in time to a docile bluegreen brine, thick with spawn and algaes. The water is the temperature of blood, a taste like blood. A damselfly, stitched in crystal, alights in your hair. You float a while.

Above you, floating hung in the bosom of the gulch, you watch an arpeggio of untethered peach petals, rich valentines form ringlets in the air under the duress of a strand of musical wind.

"Don't be afraid," you call up to the zephyred plume. "I know you're there. Come out."

Up the staggered sides of the gulch, from the embrace of obscure cypress shade he hides in, he peers in on you.

He stands, and the shifting plateau of his shoulders is visible before his face. Seed and stoneseed he unroots spill to dent the watersurface, nacreous ripples which enclose your waist. You smile and his expression, cast anxiously over the clifface on you is uninterprable, utterly.

"Why do you wear that?" you call up to him.

He doesn't reply. He stares. Distant, obscured, he looks like a beast.

"Don't be afraid," you repeat, and raise your hand in greeting. In a moment, slowly, timidly, the gesture is returned.

"Come here," you call, and he comes.

A tower rises on the horizon; the great man, haltingly, cautiously, navigates the greenish rough bouldered hips of the gulch, tumbling pebbles, the thrush of his footstep, over into the feminine palm of riverfloor, down from the sun descends to you. 

Illuminated in shades to your dimensions, the bathing-pool, clouds, the sunning rock, fronds, assorted succulents, your opened hand, clattering down the hill to the ferny pebbled waterbottom in the blue shade, to your threshold, his great size screams at you.

You've pulled yourself from the pond onto a candy-striped table of sliced sandstone to meet him. Puffs of dust he's displaced become mud on your shining tummy and thighs. He is so tall, your environmental advantage lifts you only to his eye level. He stares.

"How's your shoulder?" you ask him.

He doesn't reply. His approach over the stomach of dark land is slow, stilted, the tiptoe of the clinically timid. His shirtsleeves are folded up over his thick wooly forearms, the undersides and opened collar dark with perspiration, his strong odor preceding him. His stance is wide, posed to spring -- to flee, you think. Shrugging in the shade, he wrings his hands in a peculiar ladylike way and looks aside at you. Reassuringly (his eyelashes flutter as he inhales) you clamor over to him and you touch him.

"Don't you speak?" you ask him.

He is silent, chin tucked, childishly, shoulder averted from you, and then, softly, he hums to you. His voice chuckles like running water and chirps like a bird.

You laugh.

"Well, that's all right. I'm glad this seems all right -- " you pat his shoulder again, he's changed his shirt, his shirt is almost clean, like a sunflower, he is turning gradually to you, peering anxiously out of his face, his hands tightly clasped -- "I'm sorry for our disagreement yesterday. Say, why _do_ you wear that?"

You indicate the hem of his face, and he recoils, covering the garment in his hands. Poor thing! You leap to catch his wrist.

"There, there. I'm sorry! I won't ask again," you console. He intends to retreat, murmuring something, audibly frowning, but you hold him, though your hand cannot enlose the circumference of his wrist. In a soft, tendering rush you cajole, "I'm sorry. I won't ask any more. Don't leave."

He won't apply his weight to break your hold, he won't harm you, you see. He is so shy. Impulsively, your arm is put amiably around him.

It is to your wonder that his arm, in reply, is around you, the great arm unyielding as stone, as the hills, and as great, and you wonder when your feet are removed from cleaving dusts and moss and the weight of the world, for he's picked you, like a bluebell; how slowly, cautiously he picks you, as a horticulturist might cut the pulpy milked stem of an ideal iris, his arm closes your shoulders, and his rough, dry and enormous hand (you heat) cups up the tender cleaves behind your knees. You soak into his shirt, slip in his grip, so he must double over to seize you, bumping you up, and he considers you.

His strength becomes his proportions. He doesn't so much as shimmer beneath the weight of you. Intensely he considers you. The shade and waterlight moves in the auburns and autumns of his curling hair. You soak him and you dry.

You smile at him, arranging your arms (babylike by comparison) on his thracian shoulderbreadth.

"What are you seeing?" you wonder.

Slowly, wonderingly, he draws you into him -- the mooncup of your back in his palm, your cheek on the stone in his throat, he embraces you -- as you laugh, putting around your folded frame the indomitable arms, he sits, and sits you on him, in the earth, like the first people -- he holds in his hand your legs and feet above the dusts so they won't become dirty -- your buttock he rests in the vast plush ensconse of his combined thighs, his arm on your shoulder, his mincing paw unsure, fingers tickling the air over you, he holds you and looks and looks and looks down his doubled chin at your shining breasts.

"Have you seen a girl before?" you ask him.

He doesn't reply. He dares to take hold, like a lover, your shoulder in the timorous palm of his hand. His dirty and draconic grip (slowly, seeking something unknown) consumes the shape of your knee. His hand, wondering, reverent, spans your waist, completing its terminal channels so you become a tunnel of him, touching your ribs, the dewy unsunned pale dale beneath the moons of your bosom and his hands, you cannot stop seeing, are like weapons.

He permits you to insert your finger into a ringlet of his black and curling hair. You see his face, the secret one, inside, is red.

Anxiously, he squishes your hip, cups your stomach. It is gradual, so you do not detect, but inexorable, that his head is lowered to you, as if he'd kiss you, and you shut your eyes in smiling anticipation, and you are shifted, again, bumped, drawn up and your breast is drawn into his staring mouth.

You cannot scream, though you clatter in his hands like you've been struck a skull-splitting blow. He holds you still. You cannot escape him. He is so strong -- you might defeat time and tide but never the inertia of his insistent grip, he is so strong -- a hook in your entrails he pulls, turning you almost inside out in his initial draw, as you choke, you crack, and you feel in your flushed magmatic stomach-center the cut of his lopsided incisors like the cold shine of a diamond; perhaps then he gentles, or perhaps he's activated in your skin some arcane protocol by the switch he's flicked, for it no longer hurts you, his carnivorous kiss, though the sensation of his nursing you is consistently unendurable. Your torso is crushed to him now, ribs compressed in his cleaving embrace, his brow rolled on your collarbone, as if in passion, your breast drawn into him until he could crush and swallow it like a strawberry. You gasp, in his grasp, you quake. You flush. You disperse. You are fluid, a dish of milk. You are apart, a spray, managed into form by the force of his titanic body. 

When the phrase of you simmering in his devastating embrace manages to emit a note, he ceases. He holds you, still -- you couldn't conceivably get away, his hands on the bones of your shoulders, your hip -- the bed of his great hand, rough as leather, cups your buttocks, both thighs, shaking them inquisitively, then knocks them apart.

"No!" you gasp.

You think you'll slap him -- you roll and reel your assaulting hand up, and he knows it will happen, and he scoots out from under you, tossing you, and retreating to cocoon and cover in his arm his cheek, and the sight of this subordination stills you. He touches you. You cannot strike him.

Instead, managing up on wobbling knees, you wag your finger at him.

"No," you scold, "not there. Not now!"

He nods. He nods a lot. His shoulders jump. He's hunched in submission, knees in the earth, wringing his hands again, his knuckles paled with the intensity of his apprehensive grip. Interestingly, he wears a keen interest in appeasing you. Residual outrage is disintegrated. He is sweet. His kind feeling you seek in crawling to him (you are filthy with red mud and spit) and returning to his embrace.

The sun is hot, bluebell underneath knows.

He holds you.

He takes you again in his arms, murmuring, murmuring, like a doll, he hefts you, and holds you, on his arm, on his shoulder, and you are taken.


	3. i writing this on here cus i cant fucking find any where to host it and my damn computer is about to burst into flames i s2g

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dont read this
> 
> feb 8 - i got some critical reviews that hella depressed me lmao so i fucjed off for a while lol. but then i got 2 very kind reviews that were very encouraging, so ill work on this a little today quq

im five years old dressed in red. im eating fruit. my father is dead.

women

blight

drunk is nature

im five

i dont have a mother

i came from the water

made from the mud

five years ago, i was made.

He carries you like his bride in his arms over hill and dale, over the sea of wheat, to a sunflower town, where you struggle to be let down, so you can collect them -- he won't allow you -- he won't, you suspect, let your feet become dirty. He carries you over a waste of some smashed stuff, porcelain ribs, scarlet-crusted swans neck of pipe rising over a bathtubs lip, a bed, a frame filled with the riveting texture of clustered tin coils infected with a billow of viridian blades, irregular fountains of lovegrass, to a lawn, to the confederate shade of a house, a titan you've never seen, painted white. 

There are two stories, a porch, curtains in the windows, cerulean crowned ash established at its hips like attendant handmaidens. It is great as he is, eminent, civil, like he, the house, its painted bared white straight teeth like the liminal luminary beams of the collar of his clean shirt, the ordered meter of his shuttered buttons. It is a masculine house, and you haven't seen a man since you'd murdered your father. You've never entered a house.

He carries you around the ringing green perimeter, an affair of sparrows, the intense scrutiny of a scholarly killdeer, through to treedim, through a fecund blued garden (it is cool in proximity of the house, from the net of nurturing shade it casts, and soft grasses and flowers grow here, its lushness astonishing to you, for you only know the wild and waste) to a pocket on the pale-painted wall, a door in the earth, an iron ring.

In the cellar (an underworld palace, vast and black, a wet smell, a marine ringing resonance pursuing percussion) you slip in his arms and it is the cellar of a house, which you’ve never been in, and it is so cool, dim and pleasant. You want to look about you -- you wriggle in his grip, you wonder -- the cellar, you see, is a maze of old and molding things, piles and monuments, rotted stuff, pools still and crystal in the watercarved underfoot, crates, perplexingly, a chain link fence, hung with porcelain and bone effigies like a Christmas tree, monochromatic in the wet dripping dark, pervasive, a 

strange odor – you twist and turn to see and his hand comes over your eyes. He compresses you a little in his arm, alerting you to his intent. 

His hand is massive, rough, wonderfully warm. It touches your temple and cups up your cheek. He urges you with this gesture to see only him, forsaking the dark – so you do. Your head fits in the cup of his collar as a button in . His teeth and wet eyes shine. Sometimes, shyly, he smiles. You ascend, together, a stair.

There is in the dark the vague shape of a mattress on the floor, a slanting table, shining, lots of things you don’t know, jumbled bolts of cloth, a sewing machine.

He can’t stop looking at your breasts. He holds one (holding you on the shelf of his hip) as he carries you up an obscured stair into a red room.

The rug is red and the walls are red. The walls are plaster. Their density and uniformity is beautiful to you, its luxury nourishing to see. There are skulls hung on nails driven in the wall.

He searches in a waterruined leather trunk full of womens things.

Like a doll he dresses you. His great leathery hands are clumsy with your plumping limbs, your dimpled knees, your face he covers with his palm to slip a checked blue cotton frock over you. It is a little yellowed and out of fashion.

He tries to put you in a high chair, for a baby, chipped blue with a painting of a bonneted duckling, but you won’t fit. You laugh at him. He doesn’t mind.

He holds you instead on his knee. He fills his fingers with your hair, tugging the knots, hurting you so you wriggle in his grip. He doesn’t stop, but the tugging becomes kinder, and his ragged dark nails stimulate your scalp luxuriously. He applies red lipstick to your face, smearing copiously and ineptly, but seems pleased, in the end, at the affect.

you try to stand, and he catches you, swinging your legs up on his arm, and tucks your head under his chin () and carries you to his kitchen.

there is crockery, pale porcelainworm, charms of bones, dirt in the kitchen, dirt in the grain of the red checked tablecloth you are tucked into. he diligently plies you with a bottle of milk (sticky cloud of cream on top you pierce with your lavening tongue) a slice of pie (pecan in a dark sticky gel, the remote odor of rum, buttered crust) a fist of withered cherries and nuts, a pocketed pyramid of orange cheese, (his crooked thumb and forefinger buzzes about your temple as he hums, intently, watching you,) some bread (it is tough, so you leave it) a pale flaked butter biscuit his shivering hand smears amber honey from a jar on the shelf of the coal stove over, and you eat it from his hand, licking a drop of sunstuff from his tremoring thumb.

He sits close by your side at the table and points his head down at his clasped hands, but somehow, can’t stop seeing you.

“Can I have more pie?,” you ask, and he brings you the dish of it you finish. You lick the syrup from its rim and see for an instant before he averts his eyes he is watching you and smiling.

He looks at your feet, so you throw them up on his lap. They startle him. You want more milk, but your request is met with an apologetic posture, so you guess you’ve drunk it all.

You make rounds about the kitchen, turning over his pictures, smiling at his art, sticking your thumb in the jar of honey.

Around you he flutters

He might be whining. He makes sounds to express his various anxieties and displeasures. You accomodate him, but you don’t mind him.

It is when you draw to the pierced garment which veils a room like a door he intervenes, physically; his great hands you throw off and bark. He cowers, so you laugh at him.

In the room, it is dark, and horrible smelling.

His arm is around your waist, he hefts you, faster, and with more force, your dress thrown from your shoulder, and it occurs to you he’s becoming angry.

“Let go,” you tell him, and he gives you a little squeeze, your feet kicking feet from the floor, forcing you to realize he could kill you in the crook of his arm – “sorry! Let go!”

He does, but his hand holds your forearm. He shakes you. He scolds you with a halted, approximated wag of his finger.

“I understand,” you say, but the rate of his response tells you he reads your tone, and perhaps not the logistics of your language, for your meaning. 

Regardless, he is calmed. He touches his cheek and hold his own hand anxiously.

Consolingly, you touch his clasped hands, thinking he is really, very shy, a good old boy.

His teeth he shows you when a smile slow as narcissus buds in pillows of snow when the front doors of the home announce with a waring cry an arrival.


End file.
